


Coming Home

by MycroftsOtherPenis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftsOtherPenis/pseuds/MycroftsOtherPenis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written shortly after Series 2, found it in my documents and decided what the hey. It's very short I just had to get my feelings out</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock’s thoughts are underlined  
> John’s thoughts are bolded

Sherlock’s chest ached, the memories of his life with John flushing back to him as a wave of nausea knocking him backwards.

221b

He stood in the middle of the floor, most of the possessions untouched from 3 years ago. The room seemed dead, trapped in time; a tableaux of horror to his damp eyes. And without John, it was naked. Stripped of what made it his home.  _Their_  home. Sherlock’s head dropped heavily to his chest and tears almost threatening.

I’m crying. I don’t cry.  _You_  don’t cry, stop it!

He clenched his fists by his sides, the leather of his gloves squirming against itself as his knuckles whitened beneath them, feeling broken. He tried to fight back as his eyes stung, exasperatingly forcing his hair out of his face with one hand, letting it sit against his forehead as he stared at the ground. His muscles stayed tensed.

Finally with a sigh, he let his arm drop back to his side again, relaxing slowly. Sherlock raised his head, and for the first time, let his regrets of coming back be forgotten.

His feet were silent as he moved around the room. He stretched out a hand to trace the objects that lay scattered about the apartment; though he left an inch between them and his fingers. He was a ghost, he couldn’t feel, he was numb, numb with pain and guilt. He felt as if touching the room would somehow bring everything back, and he couldn’t deal with that, not now. Now he just needed to  _be_ here, unnoticed.

Half-way around the small room he stopped, his gaze setting on John’s chair, the pile of old newspapers standing next to it, one of his old coats. His fingers still hovering over the leather seat, his hand trembled. The weight of everything bearing down on Sherlock’s will. He let his palm fall onto the arm rest and sobbed with fresh angst. He squeezed. Feeling fake. Feeling as though it could disintegrate under his hands. As if he was dreaming. As if he hadn’t found the courage to return. As if he would disappear any second if he released his grip from the chair.

John’s chair

A tear fell from his face to the chair. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, trying to shut out the pain he had lived through these past years.

He was interrupted by a crash ringing out behind him.

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, drying instantly.

“Sher-Sherlock?”

It was barely a whisper, but it deafened him.

He can’t. He can’t see me like this, no. Not now, not here.

Turning his head to the side very slightly, “John,”

He tried to control the guilt laced in his voice, he meant to say more, his throat had tightened, his brain stunned. All he could do was slowly turn to face the man he had abandoned and hope he could make things better.

John’s eyes were wide, his hands still fixed as if holding something; that something was now shards on the floor. He was wearing his bathrobe, loosely tied at his waist, and Sherlock could read nothing of him, other than the horror in his eyes and the fact John had been asleep in Sherlock’s old room.

“No, see- no that’s not funny.” He pointed an accusing finger at his old friend, “Yo- You’re  _dead_  Sherlock. I saw- Oh God, I saw you,” His hand clasped over his mouth, his sentence dangled, not wanting to say what he knew.

**I can’t believe this, why can I see him? It’s been 7 months without the dreams and now he’s here. I can see him.**

He looks so angry. Stupid, of course he is. _Idiot._

Sherlock tried to force a smile; it came out weak, though no one would mention that.

“Forgive me, John, I don’t really know what to do in a situation like this.”

John laughed hysterically, “A situation like  _this_ \- this should never happen. I mean. How? I- I dealt with your death. It took a while, but I did, I lived through it. But this- no. I don’t-I can’t, Sherlock” He almost choked on the name. The back of his throat tingling with heat.

“You’ve dealt with the death of a friend before, I’m sure” He offered, brushing over everything important.

“Yeah, though my other friends  _stayed_  dead.” he raised both hands to his hips and bit his lip, eyebrows forced lower as his mind tried to work it over.

John’s anger rang through the room. Silencing any reply Sherlock could attempt. Sherlock dropped his gaze, he couldn’t maintain John’s stare right now. Instead he looked to the scar on his friend’s slightly exposed shoulder, remembering  their first conversation, wincing internally, realizing what he must sound like to his old companion. Berating himself for it.

I should have stayed away. I’ve hurt him enough. This was selfish. But I  _needed_ to- just be around his things, be around  _us_  again. Why did he have to be here?

“You could have told me  _something,_ Sherlock. Anything. If anyone… me. Why-“

His walls broke down, shaking his head; he screwed his eyes tightly shut, he forced back his upset. Heavily and painfully. His heart pounding and his lungs gasping for air, he collapsed in on himself, lowering slowly to the floor, any strength in his legs dissipating instantly as everything hit him, hard, in the chest.

“I… John-” He took a step towards to John and crouched, for the first time in over three years he was close enough to reach out to the man he missed so dearly, placing a hand on his heaving shoulders, he leaned in and, just loud enough to be heard over his friend’s sobbing,  whispered,

 

“I’m sorry,  John”


End file.
